


The Name of Winter

by KierWrites



Series: Heroes Do Bleed [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Women, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Past Sexual Assault, SO MUCH FLUFF, Slow Burn, and angst too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-12 12:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KierWrites/pseuds/KierWrites
Summary: “I need a mission.”He was throwing her escape plans for a loop. She huffed a breath, tearing her gaze away from him, to look at anything but him. She found and focused on a spot on the wall, breathing hard, and said, “You want to come with me?”His reply was immediate. “Yes.”Sam closed her eyes, before turning back to him. She couldn’t do this to herself, to her life. But he didn’t deserve to be left behind like a discarded old toy either. By God, her morals were making her soft.“Okay.” She let out a little breath. “Okay.”His eyes brightened, if only briefly. That alone felt like it was worth the risk.also known as: badass female surgeon gasses an entire base of bad guys, Bucky’s revenge killing spree (GoT style), and a very bad stalker Steve Rogers. Also Tony adopts everyone. Pepper isnothappy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! So yeah. I haven’t updated Rehab in a while. And by that I mean a long ass time. I was at a writing slump and couldn’t think of anything to further the plot forward, and I _really_ wasn’t happy with how the story’s progressing, so I’ve decided to say, ‘fuck it all. I’m gonna write a new book.’ 
> 
> Don’t worry, I promise I’ll finish this one (I’m already 3 chapters in!). Super stoked about this, guys! Hope you like the new protagonist too! This is, like Rehab, self-beta-ed so mistakes are mine.
> 
> Updates are on Thursdays every week. Not a promise, but I do try.

Samantha Waverly had been in a basement, peering into a ‘scope when the Triskelion fell.

She had been taking notes when the intercom above crackled to life. The agent on the treadmill hopped out, and the lab coats next to her all looked to the ceiling to listen.

_The price of freedom is high. It always has been. And it’s a price I’m willing to pay. And if I’m the only one, then so be it._

_But I’m willing to bet I’m not._

The lab went awfully silent. Sam scanned the other people in the room. Two scientists, both of which she had no affinity for. The agent on the treadmill. They didn’t seem fazed by the announcement, as if the revelation of their true identity was nothing more than a minor setback.

Sam, however, felt like someone just dumped ice water on her head. She swallowed, then breathed in slowly, returning to her ‘scope despite her shaky hands.

Both the lab coats glanced at her, then at the agent, before shrugging and going back to work. One headed for the monitors and the other the agent on the treadmill, completely ignoring her.

This was it. She glanced at the men to double check, then grabbed the gun of the treadmill agent off his pile of clothes and shot the HYDRA agent and a lab coat, before turning the gun to the remaining scientist.

“Traitor,” he hissed, eyes flaring. “Anyone who’s against HYDRA’s beliefs will pay.”

“Yeah well, you’ll get used to it.” She pulled the trigger, and watched with great satisfaction how his body crumbled like a marionette with cut strings. He might’ve looked intimidating, but she was the one with the gun.

Sam quickly searched for anymore intruders, before opening her drawer and pulling out a liquid vibrant green serum sloshing inside a vial. It was her life’s work, a serum that costed her her freedom. She was _not_ going to leave it behind for the next batch of evil, shady organizations to play with.

She quickly checked the gun magazine for ammunition, then slammed it into the butt. The lab, and the hallway that stretched before it, was fortunately empty. She knew the place well enough to get to the entrance. She passed by another smaller lab when a guard spotted her.

She shot him twice, both shots missing their marks. He crouched before springing forward like a panther, slamming her against a broken glass cabinet. His hand wrapped around her throat nearly choking her. Glass shards dug into her skin, sending sharp pain up her spine. Spots danced in her vision, but she forced herself to take deep breaths.

The guard forgot to restrain her arms, and that was his fatal mistake. She gather her strength and kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying across the hallway. The pain became bearable enough that she lifted the gun and shot him three times. He died after the first hit its mark, but she wanted to make sure.

Huffing a breath, she rolled her shoulders to test them. Still functional, thank God, but it hurt like Hell. She stumbled forward, closing her eyes and allowing herself a moment of self-pity. Then she straightened herself and continued onwards.

The entrance loomed before her like some sort of demon. It was normal and dull, and would probably pass before your eyes like any other doors would. But these had been the ones keeping her here for the past three years. And now, seeing them unmanned and just wide open. . . set off twin emotions within her: panic and relief.

She was two steps away from freedom, when the dust cleared to reveal a silhouette.

A figure stood at the bunker entrance, water dripping from his tac gear, a nasty gash on his cheek. He was holding his right arm protectively behind his metal one, and was staring at her in a mixture of shock and horror.

Immediately, Sam backed away and raised the gun at him. She knew it was no use. The Soldier could easily disarm and kill her in mere seconds, but there was comfort in knowing that something was at least between her and a deadly killer.

The man took a step forward, almost cautiously, into the dim light of the bunker. Shadow cast over his face like a blanket, covering nearly all of his features. She suddenly have a terrifying realization that his victims might’ve never even knew who their killer was. He was a ghost, taking out a target and slipping back into darkness as easily as breathing came to him.

The thought sent shivers down her spine. She was so close. So fucking close. One walk and she would be out in the open, breathing fresh air, running away from all of this. She supposed she could shoot him. But she was pretty sure he’d snap her neck before she could even pull the trigger.

“You didn’t shoot me,” he said, surprise registering on his face.

Her breath hitched a little, hearing him talk – not in Russian, but in perfect English. For some reason, she expected for him to have an accent. He sounded very. . . normal.

Lowering her gun, she said, “I’d be dead before I pull the trigger.”

He seemed to hesitate when he said, “I failed my mission,” as if expecting a blow.

Sam scanned his face. For the first time, she saw the Soldier’s fear and confusion on display. It echoed her own emotions inside her, telling her perhaps a HYDRA weapon was not so different from any other person after all.

She waited. And waited. She waited for the inevitable bullet from him, but it never came. Instead, he just stared at her, brows furrowed, like she held the answer to the universe and life itself.

“Look,” she said, almost cautiously, “if you’re not going to kill me, I’m going to continue with my escape plan. I strongly suggest you do the same.”

He didn’t seem to hear her, but hadn’t attempted to strangle her or whatever so. . . Progress.

Sam took a step forward, testing the ground, then froze when he lifted the barrel of his rifle at her forehead. Blood roared in her ears, but she forced herself to take deep breaths and took a step back.

 _He’s hurt_ , she reminded herself. _He’s hurt and in an existential crisis._ Stressing him wouldn’t do her any good.

“I don’t have a mission,” he ground out, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Pierce is dead.” If anything, she made him look more hurt. But it was a truth. Sam doubted this man had ever heard a single true word for seventy years under HYDRA. “HYDRA most likely gone down the grave with him, and S.H.I.E.L.D. with it. There’s no one around to give you orders. No one to stop you.”

She gestured at the wide open doors 10ft from them. “He’s likely not the only head. HYDRA’s blood stretches far and wide, and I wouldn’t be here when another take over the reins. You should run too. Escape.” Then she stared at him in the eyes. “Unless you want to stay and continue being a weapon?”

Sam could tell that part got to him. He lowered the gun, jaw clenching, but at least the rage boiling in him hadn’t got her killed yet. She watched him for another minute, just to make sure. Whatever she just told him stirred something in him. He was staring at the ground, breathing hard, then glanced at the doors with such intensity she was surprised he didn’t melt the metal then and there. Some time had passed and he still hadn’t moved an inch.

She knew he had no sympathy nor affiliation for HYDRA. There was no reason to stay at the place of your captives, who’d beaten and broken and tortured you. But escaping was, often more than not, more terrifying than staying. Her chest clenched at the thought, but she knew – with all her heart – that she couldn’t stay. He could. He could stay here and let the next round of megalomaniacs play with him.

From his standing, there was no reason not to. To run away and escape was to go against what seventy years of mental training had told him not to.

So Sam shot him a sympathetic look, killer and all, before slipping past him. She held her breath the entire way to the entrance, but the Soldier made no move to stop her. Jogging the last few steps, she headed outside the gloomy streets, her heart soaring at the taste of freedom.

Chaos reigned before her. People running for the metros and police patrolling the streets. They were supposed to promote peace and security, but their presence just set her on edge. She strolled quickly towards the last train, pretending to window shop when a couple of officers jogged by, then joined a sparse crowd and hopped on the subway. Sinking into her seat, she spared the bunker one last look.

It was dull and industrial-looking, and was Hell reincarnated. It was where HYDRA rose to power in the 21st Century, where she’d been held captive against her will and forced to do their bidding. And it was where he chose to stay.

She was still examining the odd little pang that thought caused her when the train halted to a stop. Sam swallowed the lump in her throat and closed her eyes.

The Soldier chose his path. It was his decision, his choice, and it was about damn time he made it. She was in no place to judge him.

So she opened her eyes, took a deep breath and hopped off board. If she was lucky and HYDRA hadn’t burn down her apartment yet, then she still would’ve had a place to go to and lay low. If not. . . Sam shook her head. She’d figure it out later.

 

* * *

 

The walk to her apartment was a short yet tense one. She scanned for any cops, didn’t see any, then set off on her course. It was nearly nighttime now, and the streets were mercifully empty. She reached her destination in no time at all, almost grinning with relief.

The building she lived in was a rundown motel-like one, but it’d been her home since she moved out after college. It was modest and cheap and fit her taste buds, despite whatever her parents had to say. The receptionist inside smiled at her, before her smile faltered when Sam said her name.

“Sam. . . Samantha Waverly?” She looked at the computer, before shaking her head. “There’s no one called Samantha Waverly here. You sure you’re looking for the right person, ma’am?”

Sam blinked. Then exhaled very slowly. Apparently her luck ran out and instead of burning her apartment, HYDRA decided to delete her off the records. Hopefully not her bank account, but who was she kidding.

“Sorry, I thought she lived here.” Sam glanced at the board and spotted a name. “I’m Josephine Anderson. I’m here to collect the keycard I left you. . . last week?”

At that, the girl smiled and looked under her desk, before pulling out a card. “Yes. Sorry Ms. Anderson, for the inconvenience.” She smiled politely, took the card, and headed for the elevators.

Those, thankfully, were working. Downtown Washington experienced an outage after one of the Helicarriers crashed into a power station. She would know, since the bunker was down and the doors running on electricity were open.

The room belonging to Anderson was painted an eye popping robin blue, broken up only by the white and black checker-patterned bedspreads and the gilded framed landscape photos dotted around the striped walls. The bathroom was cleverly hidden behind a walk-in closet, and Sam would’ve missed had she not done a tour around her new place yet.

She should probably feel bad for taking someone else’s apartment, but she was tired and in pain and could care less about some old, seventy-something lady with one too many cats and a voice worthy of a Maths teacher lecture her about theft and being homeless.

Shrugging off her lab coat was a pain, since her muscles were sore from an entire day of running and hiding. She hoped the bath water was still hot, or at least luke warm. The bathroom was nice, to the very least. A sink, a clean toilet with a full roll of tissues standing by, a cabinet next to the door and a bathtub that was heaven on its own.

Taking off her clothes lead Sam to her next discovery. Her back was stained in blood, glass shards sticking out in odd angles. Had she not took on emergency medicine, she would’ve fainted or vomited, or both at the gory sight.

Okay. She took in short, hard breaths. _Okay_. Time to tap into her training. Let the surgeon take over.

First things first, assess the patient. The shards were imbedded quite deep, since her muscles were sore and stretched, but didn’t seem to hit any major spots. The blood had dried and became rather sticky, and obscured some wounds that she really needed to see. She had to wash herself first before continuing anything.

So she shrugged off her jeans, tied her hair into a bun and jumped into the bathtub. The water was mercifully warm, and did some parts in soothing her aches and knots. Blood poured down her legs and spiralled into the drain. When the water was no longer crimson red and was clear, Sam turned off the shower head, wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel and got out of the tub.

She raided the med cabinet for a tweezer. When she found it, she sat on the closed lid of the toilet, turned her back to the mirror and began the meticulous process of self-removing shards of razor sharp glass.

She found it best to breath slow and concentrate on getting them out instead of the pain. It was zen-like, and somewhat numbed her a little. When she was done, the floor littered with glass pieces and blood.

Cleaning it was easy, so was showering, despite the searing pain every time the water hit her back. By the time she was out of the bathroom, she felt clean and relaxed and like a completely different person.

She had no new clothes to change into (Anderson stocked only menswear), and was content sleeping naked. But her stomach was growling and she doubt wrapping a towel around herself counted as street-appropriate clothes. Plus there was the problem of money, or rather the lack thereof. _God, HYDRA really sucked._

Going to bed with an empty stomach was plausible. The human body could survive a decent amount of days without food before succumbing to the effects of starvation. But she was bone tired and aching and wanted a decent meal.

Sam was contemplating on ways to get food (stealing or committing restaurant robbery) when someone knocked on the door.

She frowned. This was odd, because she lived in a doorman building that required one to buzz visitors up. Thinking it was a neighbor, she opened the door to find the Soldier on the other side.

And the serpent found her again. Either HYDRA’s new leader found him wandering its old base and gave him a new assignment, or it was something else entirely.

Sam couldn’t find the will to fight. She’d prepare for this, she almost wished it happened, because her escape was nothing short of a miracle. This, no matter how awful it seemed, was real and grounded. She stepped back and waited for him to shackle and drag her back to Base. Or end her life.

To her surprise, all he did was walked in, closed the door with his feet, and stared at her.

“If you’re going to kill me, at least do it quick.” She was amazed at how normal her voice sounded. “I don’t like waiting.”

He blinked, surprise evident on his face, and shook his head. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m not killing anyone.”

Well, that’s one way to introduce your motives. “How did you find me?”

He was completely straight-faced when he said, “Held the girl in the lobby at gunpoint and asked for the last person to come here.”

“You shot her?!” Her voice actually went squeaky at the end. Something close to a ghost of a smile crossed his face.

“No.”

If he did she wouldn’t be here anymore would she? “Then why are you here?”

That stumped him. Visibly. His face faltered and he struggled to find the words for it. She knew this feeling. This was someone challenging your worldview and flipping your perspective sideways before slapping your beliefs across the continent.

Seeing him like this sent the same feeling from before, when she’d left him at the bunker, bubbling back to the surface. This was a man who’d known nothing but submission and violence his whole life. Freedom, safety, happiness were all but strangers to him. There was something depressing about that thought. That he’d killed and shot countless men, women and children, and not know that he did it.

The world wouldn’t accept him for who he is. What he’d done. The courts of justice would be willing to overlook his pain and sufferings just to blame him for decades of violence, when the puppeteer behind the strings get away with everything. She knew if she let him go, or kick him out, he’d break. She wouldn’t do that. She _couldn’t_ do that. Somehow, the thought of someone else knowing the same pain from the same blade like she did comforted her somewhat.

Sam sighed. She was going to regret this.

“Your shoulder is dislocated,” she said. “Do you want me to reset it?”

He gave her a sharp look. Apparently he wasn’t comfortable admitting weakness, but he really didn’t have a choice here. After a moment, he nodded curtly and shifted so his right shoulder was facing her. She moved to him slowly so he could see her the entire time.

Sam shifted his arm a little, poked at the shoulder front and back to assess it. Oh, this was an easy fix. Laying her forearm on the inside of his elbow, she bent his arm over hers and yanked sharply. He barely blinked at the pain, and stepped away to test his newly relocated arm.

He nodded at her again, causing her to smile, for reasons she couldn’t articulate. She gestured at the sofa and he followed, sinking into it. Sam took a seat on the table, watching him. He was as silent as a tomb, head hidden in his hands, and it was a while before he spoke again.

“Who was I?” he asked, voice small and rough. She ignored the swirl of emotion his voice caused her.

“Sergeant Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes.” She paused, unsure of how she should phrase her next sentence. “He was a good man.”

Her words caused him to frown, as if he was trying to remember. Then, he lifted his head to look at her.

“I need a mission.”

He was throwing her escape plans for a loop. She huffed a breath, tearing her gaze away from him, to look at anything but him. She found and focused on a spot on the wall, breathing hard, and said, “You want to come with me?”

His reply was immediate. “Yes.”

Sam closed her eyes, before turning back to him. She couldn’t do this to herself, to her life. But he didn’t deserve to be left behind like a discarded old toy either. By God, her morals were making her soft.

“Okay.” She let out a little breath. “Okay.”

His eyes brightened, if only briefly. That alone felt like it was worth the risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Bad, good, meh? And what do you think of Dr. Sam Waverly?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not going to hurt you just because you’re hungry.” She pushed the rib in his direction. “Eat.”

It’s been a long time since he’d felt this calm.

Normally it would be after a mission gone well, when his handlers were happy. Happy handlers means no beating, which meant he could slip away into one of his hiding spots for a moment of clarity. That, however, was nothing like where he was right now.

In a small, claustrophobic apartment, sitting on a sofa, with a doctor before him. He didn’t know why he came to her. Well, he did, but he could’ve followed anyone else who survived HYDRA. She, at least, didn’t seem afraid to stare him back in the eyes. He could’ve killed her. Back in the bunker. Now, in her apartment. But he didn’t. Maybe _she_ was waiting for him to kill her, for him to snap and succumb to his trainings, and they’re just both counting the hours until he did.

But he knew, for the moment, that that wasn’t happening. He was still in some sort of shock. Today had been one catalyst then the next. The fight on the Helicarrier had left him sore and tired, now that the adrenaline had wore off. He saved the man on the bridge, but going after him would be diving into a rabbit hole he definitely wasn’t ready for. It was strange, being free. Allowed to think for himself.

When the doctor had left him in the bunker, he wanted to stay, despite what she had to say. He stayed and he waited for the next batch of handlers to come and pick him up, take him to the rendezvous point, assign him a target and let him take charge. It was what he knew, all he knew. HYDRA had been a part of his life, for what he could remember, for so long, that it being gone left a gaping hole in him.

He supposed she was right. He could’ve ran away, escape to some new lands and live there. He could build a house and a ranch, get a job, live life like normal people do, like his targets did.

But that thought sent a stab of panic right through him, made him want to scream, because that wasn’t _him_. It wasn’t the Soldier. The Soldier knew how to strategize, how to assemble and disassemble rifles, how to take out targets, slip past security, scan the field, obey and submit. Because it was what he’s been for so long, a shell to hide whatever he’d been and pretend that part of him didn’t exist. And now, he was going against everything the Soldier was.

He wasn’t him anymore. He expected his handlers to beat him, to wipe him and make him forget, because forgetting was better than living. But there’s no handlers, no Pierce, no HYDRA. Just a doctor in a towel, who spoke softly like she’s afraid he was going to break.

_Sergeant Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes._

_He was a good man._

He had a name. He had a goddamn name, not the Asset, not Ghost, not the Soldier. But James Barnes. Somehow, despite the utter unfamiliarity that name sounded to him, it felt right. He was in a limbo, not quite the Soldier and definitely _not_ whoever James Barnes had been. But that was enough.

“Okay.” She was speaking. He realized he didn’t know what her name was. “I’m positively starving. And you look like you haven’t eaten anything since your last wipe.”

He nodded. That was true. They usually avoided feeding him before and after wipes. Something about cognitive recalibration.

Doc (he found it easier to call her this way) hopped off the table and went to a nightstand and opened the drawer.

“I’m not dressed for going out and buying stuffs. You are, so can you– Yes!” She grinned victoriously, pulling out a wad of cash. She counted the money and said, “God, Anderson is loaded.”

“Who’s Anderson?”

“The person who lives here,” she said. “Can you go out and buy some new clothes and food?”

His eyes widened. She must’ve sensed that, since she quickly said, “Something simple. A couple of T-shirts, hoodies, jeans or sweatpants. Some new shoes would be nice, size 39.” This, at least, was easier to follow. “As for the food. Chinese takeouts is preferable, but you can buy whatever you want. Just make sure to buy something with meats in it.”

He was about to leave when she stopped him. “Wait.” She ran to the closet and pulled out a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. “Wear these. And leave the gun here as well. You wanna blend in.”

He shrugged, taking the clothes from her and ducking into the bathroom she helpfully pointed out. Ten minutes later, she handed him the cash, showed him the knock pattern he needed to knock so she knows it’s him, and he was on his way down the lobby. The receptionist glanced at him in vague recognition, but it seemed Doc’s clothes disguised him well. He made a note to tell Doc they needed to move soon.

The streets outside was cold and quiet, save for the couple walking down the pavement on the other side. He ignored them, quickly scanning the area for targets. It was easier to treat this like a mission. Helped him think.

There was a deli two blocks from this apartment, and a local burger joint opposite to where he was. Both were packed with customers, so they were off the table. He liked to keep his profile low. This left a Chinese place that was near the end of the street, and a soul food restaurant which looked very _very_ tempting.

He hesitated, glancing at the restaurant. It looked. . . good. Smelled _incredible_. And was empty. The perfect place to go to for a late night meal. But he then looked at the wad of cash in his hands, and the apartment behind him, right to the floor where she was.

With a sigh, he headed down the streets, passing by the soul food place. He reached the Chinese takeout and was momentarily baffled by the sheer size of their menu. There was at least three dozens items on here, all of which had names he could not pronounce. After doing some math and considering, he ordered a serving of everything they had, drinks excluded (he just bought three bottles of plain water).

“Oh God.” The cashier taking his order laughed. “Are you feeding an army or something?”

He forced himself to chuckle a little. “No, uh, we’re having a family get together. A lot of mouths to feed.”

The woman shook her head, smiling, then gave him the bill and walked away to get his order. A beat, then he paid and walked away with four bags worth of Chinese rolls and dumplings. He visited a clothes shop nearby, buying what Doc asked. She didn’t specify the numbers though, so he just bought 2 of each.

The walk back to the apartment seemed longer than the one out, but he did stop by the soul food restaurant to ordered a rack of ribs. It was fully dark now and exhaustion was starting to sink its claws into him. He’s more durable than your average soldier, but stress, fear and pain were all taking its toll on him. By the time he reached the stairs, not wanting to use the elevator since the receptionist was there, his muscles were ready to fall apart. He did remember to knock the code she’d asked him to use when he reached their door.

Sure enough, the door swung open and he staggered in, dropping his haul for the day.

“You look like Hell,” she commented, moving to take out the stuffs he bought. He saw the moment she reached the Chinese takeout, as her face went from surprised to happiness before softening into something he couldn’t quite decipher. “You got the Chinese takeout.”

He nodded, slumping onto the couch. God he needed sleep.

“You know you didn’t have to, right?”

A really long sleep and a nice shower. “I wanted to.” It was late and he was tired and cranky. He wasn’t in the mood for a Discussion.

Her voice was soft when she said, “Thank you.”

In his sleep deprived state, he still managed a nod at her. Then he dozed off, not caring if his clothes were stinking with sweat and dirt.

*

Sam let him sleep. Hell, she would’ve let him sleep for an entire day. But she was a doctor and knew no human body could exercise like this with no supplement to sustain it. But a little rest goes a long way. So while he was sleeping, she busied herself with other things. She took a second bath, because she deserved it and the water was hot for once, and her wounds needed bandaging, and took on the task of sorting through the groceries. He bought decent clothes, nothing too flashy, which she appreciated. There a pair of sneakers that fit her perfectly, and she guessed the slippers were for him.

She quickly changed into a tank top and wore a T-shirt over it, add in some stretchy jeans, and she looked like a tourist and not a HYDRA prisoner. A remarkable transition, really. Sam turned her attention to the foods. Chinese takeouts came with their own little paper containers, which was awesome, and the fact that he bought each of the items made her like him even more. Well, he didn’t just buy her stuffs. The rack of ribs sitting nearby was a testament of that.

There were things that even the strong-willed couldn’t resist.

She laid out the food onto some newspaper she found, all on the floor. The table was too small for that.

After she finished, she went over and snapped her fingers over his ears. He woke up with a start, nearly jumping, but then calmed down unnaturally fast. Must’ve did his sniper breathing.

“Foods ready.” She gestured at the little buffet they had going. “I suggest you eat some carbs. Meat alone wouldn’t sustain you for long.”

He peered over her shoulder and to the food laid out before him, confused and still sleepy. Slowly sliding of the couch, he pressed himself against the sofa as he studied the boxes of noodles and rolls intensely. He certainly looked afraid to touch anything, let alone eat. With a pang, she realized this might be the first ever proper meal he’d have in recent memories. While she had been tasked with attending to him post-mission, she never knew how much he ate or how often. Or if he even ate at all. HYDRA wouldn’t waste food on him. IV bags flushed with a blended concoction of nutrients would be far more likely.

Sam shrugged off the awful feeling that thought caused. They weren’t at the bunker anymore. And he definitely looked like he needed a lot of food. She reached over and grabbed a rib for him. He seemed hesitant to take it, and she bit back a sigh.

“I’m not going to hurt you just because you’re hungry.” She pushed the rib in his direction. “Eat.”

At her encouragement, he reached forward and gingerly taking the rib from her. She waited until he took the first bite, making a sound that was highly inappropriate on its own, before leaning over and grabbing a box of dumplings for herself.

He was, although part-wary and part-amazed, the quickest eater she’d ever met. And she lived in a house of men. He devoured the ribs, leaving perfectly cleaned off bones behind. Since the only thing he bought for himself was the ribs, she gave him half the takeout boxes and watched with great delight as he plowed through them rather quickly, one by one.

The food was amazing, one of the best meals that she’d ever had. She was slightly concerned of the speed he was eating, but brushed it off, hoping the serum would protect him from a stomach ache. He was starving and obviously enjoying the food, so no way in Hell was she going to stop him then.

They were halfway through the meal when he paused his eating and turned to her.

“I was wondering.” A guilty look casted over his face, as if he was afraid she’d beat him over a question. Sam shook her head and offered him a smile, which seemed to spur him on. “Who was James Buchanan Barnes?”

She blinked. Hadn’t she told him this already? “You.”

Her answer didn’t seem to satisfy him. “No. Who was he? Who was he like?” he pressed.

She sighed and set down her takeout box. She was _not_ ready to be his info book. “James Barnes was born in 1917, lived in Brooklyn for most of his childhood, and was later a soldier in the 107th Infantry Regiment. One of the Howling Commandos.” She paused when he grimaced, but he shook his head and made a little wave with his hand that spelled out, ‘ _go on_ ’. Smiling a little at that, she continued, “He served during World War II, along with his best friend and leader Steve Rogers, who’s known then and now as Captain America.”

He seemed to breath a little harder at Cap’s name, frowning and flinching. She picked up on that too, and stopped the second time.

“No,” he ground out, almost like a growl. “Continue. Please.”

The ‘please’ got to her. “During a mission near the end of the War, Barnes fell off a HYDRA train and off the side of a mountain cliff, plummeting to his presumed death. Or at least that's what everyone thought.” Sam closed her eyes, trying to detach. “The Soviets found him, what’s left of him, and keep him prisoner until Zola was freed. He took Barnes to Russia and continued his experience on him. Highly illegal experiments, classified and untraceable. They kept him in cryostasis in between surgeries and wipes, to keep his memories from surfacing–”

She heard a crash and cracked open her eyes. The table had been broken in half, and he was now half way across the room, staring into the window and the city below. Even from here, she could hear his harsh breathing. Swallowing a little, she got up and stepped away from the pieces of wood.

She knew this would happen. Memories, traumatic memories, were repressed by the Machine back at the bunker. Now, without any form of memory suppression, all those flashes of pain and fear and lost would all crash into him. Any normal man would’ve crumbled under the pressure. He would too, like a ticking time bomb.

Sam sighed. She felt like she owed him this, wanting to go over and comfort him. But at the same time, she didn’t want to intrude on his personal space.

_Whatever. She did this. She should fix it too._

“ _Soldat?_ ” she asked, walking carefully towards him. He made no move to acknowledge her, so she crossed the final steps and stood next to him. Stark light contrasted the darkness of the room, as it showed on his face. She sighed, looking away from him to the scenery below.

People walking, cars speeding streets to streets. Blocks of buildings were bursting with life, with shops and cafes and restaurants. She wondered what people were doing now. Probably happy, with their loved ones, oblivious to the darkness of the city.

“You said I was a good man.” His voice was scratchy and rough, like he cried. She wouldn’t judge him if he had, though.

“A good man doesn’t mean living a good life.” When he turned to look at her – eyes dried, she noted – she heaved a sigh and crossed her arms, leaning on the window stills. “You can’t force answers out of me like this. It’s hard on me and it’s hard on you. James Barnes was a good man and a good soldier. If that’s what you wanted to know and believe then I won’t judge you.” His gaze snapped to hers, eyes narrowed and critical. She shrugged. “Really. I won’t. But the truth is harsh and sometimes hurts a whole lot more than lies. James Barnes died. From him, the Soldier was born. It’s the truth, and whether you accept it is not up to me.”

Sam gestured at the pedestrians strolling on the pavements below. “Look. They chose not to know the truth, and they still lived a happy, full life. It’s time you choose what you want, too.”

She saw his jaw clenched and unclenched, before he jerked his head away and headed back to the broken table. A beat, then, “I thought knowing what happened would. . . I thought–”

“You thought knowing the truth would put some demons to rest?”

He nodded curtly, face half-turned to her. She smiled a little at that. “That’s understandable, but a terrible way to cope.” She went over to him and sat her butt on the sofa. “I’m a major in Psychology. I would know,” she said, then hesitated before saying her next sentence. “What did you choose?”

This time, his face softened and his breathing evened out. “To be James Barnes again. To learn my place in the world.”

 _And the cycle continues._ “I don’t know if you can do that,” she admitted. His face darkened, but she talked before he could. “But we could certainly try. There’s a museum in the city, the Smithsonian. We could go and learn a little about Barnes’ past life, and see if you can cope with that, okay? We’ll then figure out our next steps.”

She leaned a little to look at his face better. He looked truly exhausted, sleepline etched on his face. But he let out a little breath and nodded. Smiling, Sam got up and went over to the mess he made.

“Help me clean this up.”

However upset he was, she was _not_ cleaning up a broken table all on her own. He went over and helped her get to work.

After they stashed away the broken furniture into the massive walk-in closet, cleaned the trash from their meal and left it outside the room, Sam washed her hands and jumped on bed, sinking into the heavenly mattress. He gathered his clothes and disappeared inside the bathroom.

She couldn’t sleep. She really couldn’t. Despite the fact that her eyes were screaming for rest, Sam couldn’t shut them. She was still awake when he got back from his shower, wearing clothes that was too strange to see him in. She was still awake when he sank into the bed and rolled over so his back was facing her.

Well, she’d dealt with angrier, louder grumpy toddlers.

Sighing, she got up and went to the bathroom. It was time to change the bandage anyway. Half an hour of cursing and struggling later, she was topless, wrapped in gauze like some sort of mummy, and one-hundred-percent sleep ready.

She didn’t know if she was unlucky or lucky that Anderson had a single king-sized bed, but it was still extremely comfortable so she wouldn’t complain. After double checking that the door and windows were locked, Sam climbed on bed and pulled the massive blanket over her, falling fast asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt like all the air was knocked out of him. He had a friend. He had a commando, had people who’d watch his six, who he’d joked with. _Laughed_ with. He meant something to those people. He was someone. He’d been a _goddamn_ person.

He woke up curled around a sleeping woman. He knew that it was a woman, though for the life of him couldn’t remember why. And the fact that this feeling somehow felt familiar was maddening in and of itself.

He quickly disentangled himself away from the woman, especially once he realized the woman was Doc. Then he remembered he still hadn’t asked what her name was.

Well, that thought could sit for another day. His mouth smelled and he needed to take a piss. One trip to the bathroom later, he was heading towards their bed, taking a T-shirt and sweatpants along with him. They were comfortable, far more comfortable than everything he’s ever worn before. He was never going to change out of them ever again. Then he let that thought hit him, and he froze.

He. . . actually liked something. For once. Well, the meal had been enjoyable, but that was born of hunger and exhaustion. He’d had eight hours of full sleep since then, rested and relaxed. He’s free. HYDRA was out of the picture, for now. This moment, inside an apartment, was a little slice of peace and quiet that he could keep safe and examine later.

This was conscious, a decision he made for himself.

There was going to be a lot of decisions now, he realized. What to do, where to go, how to be whoever he’d been seventy years ago. It was overwhelming to think about, causing him an urge to shelve that thought away before he panicked and trash the entire room.

“What are you thinking about?”

Doc’s voice jolted him out of his shell. He looked up sharply, finding her face and using it to ground him to reality.

“Nothing.” That wasn’t true, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. “Just stuffs.”

She clearly saw through his bullshit, but merely nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I was thinking of how we could get to the Smithsonian. I did promise someone a trip.”

He was surprised she even remembered. “When?”

She hopped off bed, shrugging off the blanket and revealing her bandaged chest, back dotted with blots of blood. Something akin to male pride, or just pure embarrassment, surged when he realized she slept topless, and he held her during all that.

Grabbing a new gauze and shirt, she ducked into the bathroom. She emerged ten minutes later, all ten of which he spent staring at the bright blue ceiling above him, striding over to the sofa and taking out a backpack that must’ve came with the apartment.

“We’ll get breakfast, then take a subway from there.” She shoved a handgun inside, a bottle of water, a med bag and another wad of cash. Doc was right. Whoever owned this apartment was loaded. “There’s a diner down the street. Bacon and eggs. You good with that?”

He nodded. She gave him one of her little smiles at that. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she crossed the room to the door and held it open.

“Then let’s go.”

*

Breakfast was good. Doc bought them bacons and eggs, as promised, and an entire stack of pancakes she drowned in maple syrup, which she horde all to herself. He didn’t mind, sweet food wasn’t his taste anyway. After that, they paid and tipped the waiter, before setting off to find a subway.

“Fuck this place,” she muttered at the tenth time they circled back to the place where they took off, marked by a traffic sign and a bench. He frowned at the curse.

“I thought you lived here?”

“It’s not like they hadn’t changed the metro at all during the three years I went missing,” she growled. He averted his attention to somewhere else other than a pissed off doctor, and spotted one of those things that contained maps for tourists. How they never discovered that before was beyond him.

Ignoring her pacing, he strolled over and plucked a map from the glass case. Her shocked face when he casually handed it over to her was astonishing. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, before taking a deep breath.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

*

The ride on the train was more or less uncomfortable. He nearly suffocated in the overpopulated cabin, and only managed to breath thanks to his height. Doc was faring much better than him, he noted. She’d tip her head back and closed her eyes, but he doubt she was snoozing.

The museum was a short walk from the station, but enough for him to catch his breath. Doc stopped on the way to buy him a cap to hide his face. He was sure there were words sewn on it, but she refused to let him take it off. Something akin to a smirk crossed her face once he begrudgingly wore it. It stirred a deep, dormant part of his mind. He thought it was amusement.

An hour later, he was at the Smithsonian, walking through the Captain America exhibit, Doc trailing after him. She’d bought the tickets and somehow kept him away from the metal detector machine, and when they reached the exhibit she’d given him free reins to go wherever he wanted. He kept himself to the shadows, which was easy since the display area was already dark, half-listening to the droning narrator above, half-watching the crowds of visitor marvel at the realistically dressed wax figure on stage.

His eyes flitted across the uniforms, his brain throbbing at the stab of memory again, like last night when Doc rattled off his past for him. But this was more intense, more vivid. Flashes of memories that was completely foreign to him yet scorched his mind.

The more the he chased the rabbit down the hole, the more the images flashed across his eyes. At first, they were harmless, meaningless. Cars, vintage and old. A rundown neighborhood. A skinny blonde man with serious asthma issues. Then the flashbacks became something more. There were gunshots all around him, men shouting and dying. Then he was up in a high-speed train, with the same blonde man standing next to him.  
  
_Bucky! Nooooo!_  
  
He was falling, falling fast with no traction. Gravity gripped him and dragged him down. A train passed overhead, snow raining heavily on him as he fell. Someone was yelling out his name. He tried to scream, but his throat froze. And then he crashed into something, pain erupted from all over his body, but his left arm felt excruciating. He lost sensation over it immediately after, and his consciousness followed.  
  
_Sergeant Barnes. The procedure had already started._

There was an old scientist staring at him. His mouth was moving but he couldn't hear a thing. There was blood on him, and a blade sawing what remained of his chest. He could scream, but he was too transfixed in horror of what they had done to him. What they had made him become.  
  
The next time he opened his eyes, one of his arms were metal. 

They tried to break him. With whips and canes and poison, they tried to erase the man who was once James Buchanan Barnes. He remembered the pain, the sharp slash of a whip on his skin, the weight of carrying his memories. His teammates. Steve, Dugan, Sawyer, Falsworth. Names nothing but whisper on his cracked lips, until he forgot what they meant. Until he forgot them, forgot the war, the Commandos. Until even his name was all but ashes on his tongue. A man in a suit came, beat him till his skin gave and his flesh tore, strapped him to a chair and smile as he screamed, as his memories fade into oblivion.

They broke him until he broke no more, nothing but a shell of a man. A weapon. Suddenly his metal arm didn’t feel as heavy. Suddenly, there was nothing else but HYDRA. When they whipped him, he used to scream his name in a vain attempt to remember. Now they asked his name, and he whispered, “ _Soldat_.”

Suit smiled, a smile which he couldn’t understand. He wasn’t supposed to understand. He only obey the system, and carry out its good will. Then someone muffled his mouth and dragged him back. He tried to kill one of the lab coats, but the old scientist came back and drugged him.  
  
_Put him on ice._

There was a spike of dread when he felt the cold sink its teeth into him, inside the chamber. He didn't want to go back under. In a surge of panic, he lashed out, his fist colliding with something firm and warm. When he opened his eyes, Doc’s own grey ones bore into his own, steady and stable. As stable as anything in the world right now.

She was holding him from behind, restraining his left arm. He realized he could’ve knocked a mannequin over during his outlash.

“Breath,” Doc whispered into his ear. “We’ll find you someplace to sit.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, nodding erratically, letting her steer him because he couldn’t trust his own body to move right now. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Count to eight before exhaling, then cut before two. The controlled breathing did somewhat help calm him down, but it didn’t help beat back the rush of emotions tangled with memories so disjointed, he couldn’t tell which was which.

Doc shoved him onto a bench, hand firm and cool on his shoulder. Blood roared in his ears, drowning out all but the sound of his own harsh breathing. He thought he was going to fall over any moment.

“Breathe,” she said, voice soothing and commanding at the same time. “I’m going to get ice cream from the truck opposite you. Try to clear your head.”

And then she was gone, the person anchoring him to the present gone. He shouldn’t feel panicked, except he did. Because the train and the blood and the doctors were all real. Because Doc was right. Because he’d never be okay again.

_No. Stop. Clear your head._

Doc’s advice echoed in his head and he nodded to himself, taking deep breaths and hunching his head until his ears were no longer ringing. He’d just gotten the handle of it when she came back, holding two vanilla ice creams on her hands.

“Here,” she said, handing him one. “Sugar helps. Trust me.”

The ice cream was sweet, cold and creamy, and he was surprised at how much he liked it. Doc took a seat next to him, nearly chewing off the whipped head of the soft serve.

They stayed silent while eating, but he was fairly sure she was watching him the entire time. She hadn’t asked him any questions though, so he forgave her for that. And she was right, for the second time today. Eating helped him concentrate on something other than digging a hole he knew he’d never climb out of. If he thought about it for another moment he was going to snap.

“So.” Doc stood and wiped her mouth and fingers with a tissue paper. “I found something that might help you.”

“Is it back at the museum?”

She frowned a little, which rather confirmed his suspicions.

“It’ll be quick,” she promised, jumping to her feet and holding out her hand for him. “C’mon. I’ll buy you another ice cream. Two if you admit it helps.”

He sighed. The offer _was_ tempting. “Fine.”

She smiled, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. “It’s a deal.”

*

Turns out, the thing that Doc wanted him to see was his own semi-exhibit. It hit him like a truck, seeing his own face on a mural. He looked so young then, so care free. And nothing like he looked this morning in the mirror.

_Barnes’ marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theatre._

That had been him. He’d been a good guy. A hero.

Then he glanced down at the old newsreel footage, and something within him _broke._ That was him. Him in the Allies’ uniform. On a truck into an open zone of war and bloodshed, and yet he was smiling with Steve.

_Right, ‘cause you got nothing to prove._

_I thought you were smaller._

_I’m with you till the end of the line, pal._

The man on the bridge _had_ a name. He was Steve. He was Captain America. He was Bucky’s _best friend._

He felt like all the air was knocked out of him. He had a friend. He had a commando, had people who’d watch his six, who he’d joked with. _Laughed_ with. He meant something to those people. He was someone. He’d been a _goddamn_ person.

Air came rushing into him the moment he allowed himself to breath again. He’d just found his answer. James Barnes was a hero, was a friend, had comrades, treated his team like they were _brothers_. But now that person seemed like someone else, far more different than who he was now. He didn’t know where to go. A path had just opened before him but he had no idea where to start.

Slowly, he detached himself away from the memorial, letting the flood of people cover him so he could slip back to the exit. He knew Doc was waiting there, and sure enough there she was, standing guard with her mouth set into a grim line.

Her face softened a little when she saw him. She bounced off the wall she was leaning on and strolled to him.

“Did it help?”

In giving him hopes that he could be a person again? Yes. In showing him how? No.

“Somewhat.”

Her face brightened. “Then I guess I owe you two ice creams then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three-thousand-six-hundred-and-ninety-nine days. Nearly ten years before they broke him. Before he gave in just to escape the burning maze of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: non-graphic (or at least I tried to) mention of past sexual assault, non-graphic description of attempted sexual assault & graphic descriptions of a fucking massacre (yes I went there. This is where the Mature rating comes in guys!)

She took him to a cafe nearby. It was rather empty and peaceful, and she thought he could use some peace after visiting his own memorial. Speaking of which, said person had been awfully quiet since the trip there. Well, he’d always been quiet, but this was on another level.

Sam spared him a worried glance before turning her attention to the menu. They hadn’t eaten anything since this morning, but the price was so atrocious she only ordered a double sundae.

Luckily, their dessert arrived quickly. She wasn’t really hungry, plus this was for him, so she just left it there. Silence reigned. He looked so downtrodden she didn’t have the heart to ask what’s on his mind.

She’d always been the quiet one amongst her loud, squabbling siblings. Growing up in a family of four, three of which were males, she’d learnt rather quickly how insignificant her voice was compared to her brothers. None of them really cared about her opinions, or her problems. So she grew tough skin and learnt how to take care of herself. Grew hard and stubborn, even more so than her family, so she could stand up against them. She didn’t pry anyone on anything, because her father or brothers never did. It was a system that worked quite well for her, all the years in med school and college, and in Pakistan. _Mind your own business._

But she did have both MD and PHD on Psychology. And her Doc voice was telling her if Barnes wasn’t going to talk about his problems soon, he was going to snap. She wasn’t one to instigate a conversation, so she waited, using her time to study him.

He had his head hunched downwards, dark hair covering his face. She couldn’t hear his breathing, as she often did. He could be as quiet as a ghost if he wanted to. It was a good thing if you’re a sniper. A very bad thing if you just had a panic attack.

Sam was about to open her mouth when Barnes beat her to it. “I don’t know what to do.”

She frowned. “In what timescale? Because I hear this in ninety-five percent of my conversations with my patients.”

He tilted his head in an oddly endearing manner. “Patients? You were a doctor?”

Ladies and gentlemen, this is how you get a nonagenarian assassin to talk. “A psychologist. More of a therapist.” She let out a sigh. “I was, anyways. Lost my job when HYDRA kidnapped me and deleted my records.”

“Why did they took you?” That had inflection. Interest.

_Progress._

“The _Potential Uses of the Truth Serum in Government Controlled Agency_ ,” she rattled of like a child reciting a rhyme.

“Yours?”

“Yes.” It’d been a long time since she last talked about this. “Mine. A serum that can make you spill your guts, figuratively and literally.” One of his eyebrows went up and she had to fight a smile. “Very not doctor-like, I know. But that had been a younger me when I came up with the idea, more naive. Wanted to make the world a better place, I guess. I read the CIA and FBI files, saw the flaws in their torture and interrogation procedure. It was remarkably inefficient and longer than necessary. I thought of how I could shorten the process, make it more effective. How to get the captive to tell the absolute truth, and not having to kill them after you finish.”

“That’s. . .” He struggled to find the words. “Very inventive.”

“How polite of you,” she said sardonically. “I kept it a secret for a long time, didn’t want to publish it ‘cause I was afraid someone else might take the credit. I was waiting for an opportunity to arise. Then Maria Hill came and recruited me into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ranks of scientists, said she wanted me to finish what I’ve started. And I did.” She grabbed a spoon and dug into the sundae. “I worked there for ten months. Ten of the best months of my life. Top grade equipments, genius colleagues, a research lab that puts Harvard’s to shame.”

He frowned. “That’s too good to be true.”

She nodded. “Like I said, I was naive. Unfortunately so. When HYDRA took over, they went for me first. Dragged me to a cell with a stack of protein bars and a bowl of sewage water. I told them off, saying things that costed me everything. My records, my scholarship, my family.” She blew out a breath. “It was hard, but I held on to my morals. For three years, I refused their offer.”

Sam dipped her head, suddenly feeling hard to breath. “Then a nice old man in a suit came, and told me he’d break me himself.”

She could hear his breath quickened. “Did you?”

This would be easier if she showed him. Pushing down the collar of her shirt, Sam popped open a few buttons, revealing not only the pale of her skin, but also the long scar that ran from the swell of her left breast down to the midsection. There was nothing normal about that scar. It was jagged and angry and, even after two years, was still as visible as the day she got it.

She could see his gaze trail from the tip of the scar to its end, face morphing from shocked to an awful kind of understanding. She closed the shirt before he could reach out and touch. Some wounds, no matter how old, still hurts.

“There.” Funny how there was still a lump in her throat. “I broke. I was in my cell. It was dark out, but I never slept. Kept thinking about Pierce’s words.” She smiled, but there was nothing humorous about that smile. “I guess I thought about it enough that it came true. One of the scientists saw me in my cell. He came in, we tussled and knocked me to the ground, him on top of me, knife at my chest.” Her breath came out in a rush. “He cut me. I kicked him in the shin. I tried taking the knife from him, turn the tables, but he was too fast. Too strong. And fucking brutal with a knife. He made me scream until I couldn’t scream. I thought that was it. It couldn’t get any worse than this.” Closing her eyes, she said, “He wanted more. I was vulnerable and he had the knife. He was on top of me again; told me I could fight or I could relax, either way I’d be screaming his name by the end. It hurt so much that I blacked out a couple of times. By the time I woke up, he was gone and there was blood everywhere.” Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she blinked them back. “So yes, he broke me. And I counted every single fucking day until I get to kill him.”

 

* * *

 

He had no idea what to say to that. He had no idea she’d talk to him, much less tell him her entire life story. For the past few days he’d known her, she’d always struck him as a silent, condescending tough-as-nails scientist. Not a vengeful genius who invented a serum that caused organ combustion with an agenda against HYDRA. But then again, he wasn’t a very good judge of character.

Finally, he said, “You were very strong, to have survived this long.”

Doc gave a dry smile. “Yeah, well, the world kept beating me down. So I grew hard to protect myself.”

That was, oddly, very like her. To grow thick skin and cut everyone out; be a lone wolf in a world of snakes and sheeps. “Did you get to kill him?”

A sharp laugh came from her mouth, but he found no trace of humor in it. “No,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Sick bastard took off the moment he saw me shoot his colleagues. I could’ve gone after him but. . .” She shrugged. “The building was going to crash. I had no plans of sticking around and find out when.”

The waiter brought them a coffee. Doc looked a second away from telling him he got the wrong table, but instead she just smiled politely and waved him off.

He gave her a critical look.

She grinned, tearing off a packet of sugar. “A free cup of coffee in the afternoon? Yes please.”

Without meaning to, he started smiling himself. Then her face dropped, as if he’d just announced he killed her mother, and she poured the sugar in the coffee miserably. The change in mood was so sudden he wanted to ask her what was wrong.

Doc sighed wistfully, eyes trained on him but somehow felt like she was staring off into the far distance behind. She began stirring the coffee when she said, “Two years, seven months, twenty-one days,” in a voice so soft it was near silence. “That’s how long it took for them to break me.”

 _Ah. He should’ve seen that coming._ “I’m sorry,” he said, voice equally as soft. Shaking her head, she gave a stark laugh.

“Don’t apologize,” she said, almost in a chiding tone. “I’m sure yours is much worse than mine.” Then her eyes widened. “I mean– It’s not what I mean. Well, yes, it is. But not like that– Not in that way–” She groaned, dropping her face in her hands. “I swear. It sounded so much better in my head.”

Well, he wasn’t particularly offended. He’d dealt with much worse unintentional insults. “It’s fine,” he assured. “I’m not much of a sensitive person anyway.”

One of the corner of her lips twitched up ever-so-slightly. “That I can sympathize with. My father’s always thought I was an insensitive jerk.” Then her eyes softened, he had an inkling of a feeling she was about to ask him a question.

“How long? How long did it took them?” _And there it was._ He didn’t need her to elaborate on her question to get the meaning.

_How long did it took HYDRA to break you?_

If she’d asked him this question prior to the trip to the Smithsonian, he’d say he didn’t know. But that wasn’t true anymore. Seeing his comrades’ clothes, Steve’s old uniform, and most especially his own _goddamn_ memorial set off a lot of uncontrolled memories. Some good, most bad, but all very vivid and real.

He could close his eyes and reimagine the horror and carnage he endured all those years under their hands. The pain he never voiced aloud when he lifted his failing metal arm and scratched another mark into the stonewall, another reminder of his dwindling sanity. A mark counting the days he held onto his memories, his morals, next to the three-thousand-six-hundred-and-ninety-eight marks that sit before it.

Three-thousand-six-hundred-and-ninety-nine days. Nearly ten years before they broke him. Before he gave in just to escape the burning maze of his mind.

“I’m sorry.” Doc was speaking. “I didn’t mean to pry–”

“Three-thousand-six-hundred-and-ninety-nine days,” was his raspy reply. The look of shock she gave him was almost comical.

“Jesus,” she whispered softly. Then her expression resolved into something out of respect. “You were very strong, to have held on for so long.”

He nodded numbly, suddenly cold. He could still taste the vileness in the cell. The putrid smell of rotting flesh and the bitter tang of blood somehow stuck to his tongue, despite the sweetness of the sundae he was eating.

Suddenly, he felt something settling on his shoulders, and whipped around to see Doc placing her jacket over him, enveloping him in its warmth like a blanket. He gripped her hand, holding it all too tightly.

“You don’t have to.” He wasn’t cold. He really wasn’t. The sun was scorching his hair overhead and melting the tarmac beneath their feet. If anything, this should be adding to the heat, but he somehow felt safer in the embrace of her jacket.

Her expression softened. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Why?” The word slipped past his lips before he could think the better of it. “Why keep me? I’m a weapon that could turn on you any minute. I’m a liability. HYDRA could be hunting me this very second, and they would stop at nothing to get me. Not even you.”

Her face changed into something he couldn’t decipher. And he was very good at reading people. “I’m not doing this out of pity. I’m not even doing this because I want to,” she said. “I’m doing this because I’ve been living inside my head for the past three years. For three years I’ve cried and endured and braved through the pain, because I told myself there wouldn’t be anyone else who knew what I’m being put through. Honestly, what are the chances of someone else being tortured by the same organization who kidnapped you, and still be alive?” She scoffed, but then her gaze softened. “But then you came. And you understood. There’s no feeling in the world better than the one you get when someone. . . finally. . . understands your pain. Your sufferings. And they have the scars to show it. For the first time.” She paused, turning away from him. “I’m not alone.”

His chest clenched painfully as she spoke. It truly hit him like a punch in the guts. Because as much as he’d like to deny it, the prickly Doc who’d stuck by him, who’d kept and forced him to eat, who’d bribed him with ice cream until he went to see his memorial and understood the pain and hope it gave him, was just like him. And somehow, someway, it felt right.

“So what now?” he asked, still digesting the news she laced within her speech. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I always take small steps before a giant leap.”

He had the sudden urge to smile. “Then I guess I know what to do.”

Her head snapped up at his extended hand, then went through a range of emotion. She landed on one he’d describe as being the closest to gratitude.

“James,” he said as she shook his hand. Her smile was brief, and almost shy.

“Samantha.”

 

* * *

 

When they got back to the apartment building, Sam nearly cried in relief. She’d been walking the entire way home, trying her best not to curse and complain about her sore feet like James. The metro had just shut down a few hours ago, something about police patrol trespassing railways, but she could sniff a bullshitty lie when she smelled it. This wasn’t the police, this was HYDRA. And they were here to take back what was theirs: her serum and the Soldier.

But it was dark out and running away when they both needed rest was risky and unnecessary. James already went ahead to scout for enemies, so she was reduced to staying behind and waiting for his OK sign to continue on. Not that she liked it. The streets were eerily quiet, enough to hear the sound of pins dropping, but that was the problem. There was no sound at all, other than the noise of her boots crunching against the tarmac, of her breathing hard against the rhythmic howling of the wind.

It was as if she was alone. Which was ridiculous, of course. This side of town, even at midnight, was always awake. Always bright, always moving. The houses should be bursting with life, the shops open and blasting 90s from their windows. People strolling down the streets, laughing and mingling, children chasing each other in a game of tag.

But it was as if HYDRA somehow isolated her, and her alone, on this street, at this exact moment. Somehow, they removed all signs of life except for her. Somehow, they blinded her senses. She couldn’t see that far: the clouds obscured the moon and all the street lights were randomly off, couldn’t hear a thing save for the wind blowing and her soft footsteps on the pavement. Darkness surrounded her, more of a cage than a cloak, trapping her in its hold.

Sam stopped walking after realizing she had no idea where she was going. She slowed her breathing, trying her damn best to make it soft and nearly inaudible, and focused all her will on listening to her surroundings. It was hard, but that was the only way she could hear anything else other than the sound she was making. Sam quickly filtered out background noise, before sounds of leaves ruffling reached her. It was the first anomaly. She tensed, using all her will power to stay as still as possible, then, out of the corner of her eyes, men clad in tac gear emerged from the dark.

The rippling of the shadows was the only indication they were there at all. Their footsteps were soft, and came from all sides. Had she not stopped breathing she wouldn’t have heard them coming at all. But she was too late. They surrounded her, like wolves to a deer, guns clicking and aiming at her direction. She froze, her limbs stuck in place and her brain a complete mess of fight-or-flight instinct.

She’d just walked straight into an ambush.

The sudden urge to run away and scream was near impossible to ignore, and her eyes darted side to side, trying to make sense of the silhouettes the soldiers were casting and deducing how many there were.

 _Eight,_ her logical, surgeon brain said. _Armed with short-range sidearms, no darts which means real bullets, which means they’re here to kill._

 _I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to fucking die._ That was the rest of her brain, the parts that overrode the rational Doc voice. The only parts she listened to.

Where was James during all this? Where was he? Had he abandoned her to pursue his freedom? Had he returned to his masters like a good bloodhound, ready to hunt and kill her? Had he betrayed the things she told him, things she never told anyone else, and gave it to HYDRA? Was he looking for the serum?

Despair clung onto her, sinking its foul teeth into her mind like a viper spreading its venom onto its preys. He really could’ve left her, let her die and run away. What was stopping him?

_Why did she trust him?_

Sam took a step back, hoping in vain that there was an escape route miraculously behind her and could get her out of this shitshow. One of the soldiers shout something, then she felt the sharp barrel of a rifle poke her back, the crack of a trigger going off.

Then her body screamed, and pain snapped onto her skin like a whip and drowned her in its chokehold. Everything around her faded into the background; Sam felt as though she was, for a brief second, detached from reality.

And then the feeling of the searing hot metal burning through her shirt crashed her back to Earth, and she gave a broken cry. Pain erupted from her lower abdomen, bright hot burning pain. Agonizing pain that almost knocked her unconscious from the sheer force of its excruciating sensation. She instinctively pressed her palm flat on the wound, hoping – in vain – that it might be able to stop the bleeding.

Her breath came out forced and labored. Without thinking, she jabbed her elbow against a soldier’s stomach behind her, knocking him back. Nausea rise as blood seeped from her wound, but she clenched her teeth and forced herself to move to the clearing.

 _The shot hadn’t been fatal_ , she thought in her clipped Doc tone, trying to detach. It was easier to think and act rationally when she pretend the body that was bleeding wasn’t hers, rather a patient on her table. A patient that needed saving right now.

With that in mind, she pushed forward, somehow managing to coordinate her legs in a way that got her 6 feet away from the disoriented, shouting soldiers. The pain was getting worse. She wasn’t helping her system by running and using her abdominal muscles. She certainly wasn’t going to live by just knocking back one single soldier when an entire squad was behind her back.

 _It might be easier just to give into the pain_ , she thought. That, at least, was better than running away from certain death. Sam never imagined she’d go out like this: hunted by HYDRA like some prize kill while her only hope ditched her after she told him her life story.

 _This is fine._ Nothing was fine. _You don’t have to deal with any of this ever again. You’ll be at peace._ And let HYDRA take her life’s work and replicate and use it to fuel their quest for world domination? _Since when did you feel obligated to save the world?_ Since HYDRA fucking torture her.

One of the soldiers reached her first, clocking the rifle across her jaw with its butt. The pain dazzled her, and Sam had to force down the urge to retch as another wave of nausea rose. Bile coated her mouth when, with a wide grin, he lifted his rifle and pointed it at her face, cradling it in one arm. Her brain tried to rationalize, to think, to make sense of the situation. But there was no explanation. The soldier could’ve killed her right then. His comrades could’ve pulled the trigger and ended her. But they didn’t. And instead formed a circle around her and the monster before her, boots crunching and laughs ringing across the empty streets.

Sam closed her eyes, trying to slip into the Doc part of her brain. The part that felt nothing. The only part where she could watch a child’s head get bashed against a wall and not portray any emotions at all. She clenched her jaws when the sound of seams ripping reached her, the smell of dirt and blood attacked her nose. Ice flood her veins when she felt his calloused hand grabbed and squeezed her exposed breast, fingers flicking across the nipple.

She jerked back instinctively, but the pain from the bullet ground her to the spot. The soldiers around her laughed and jeered as her attacker grinned again, hand slamming her against a wall and sliding down towards the waist of her pants. _Of course._ She should’ve known. Should’ve known it wouldn’t be this easy or simple. They wouldn’t just _kill_ her, no. They wanted – needed – to maim her, to break her as her rapist had. Because they were HYDRA, and HYDRA had no sympathy for the cowards or the broken ones. They were going to watch as one of theirs rape her, and then – worse – take turns. Then, finally then, would they give her a swift ending.

 _It’ll be quick_ , she tried. _When they’re done, they’ll kill you._ One bullet. One bullet was all it took. But the feeling of being raped again was something she wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , go through ever again. She opened her eyes and met the soldier’s mud green ones. It was fuzzy and exhausting. She was losing too much blood. Sliding down the wall and sitting seemed like the most comfortable thing to do, and that wasn’t saying much.

He held her gaze as he hooked a thumb over the flimsy material of her jean’s waistband. When he slipped inside and slid it down towards her crotch she – despite the pain and disgust – reached up, grabbed the barrel of his gun and slammed it back into his face. Blood spurted from his nose when her hand found the trigger.

HYDRA soldiers all around her lifted and aimed at her with whatever firearms they had, but it was worth it when his body fell and crumbled to the tarmac below like a marionette with cut strings.

But before they could shoot her, or she them, a sudden scream and a rattle of gunfire drew their attention away. They all watched as a soldier’s screams turned into gurgles as blood rained from a gash across his throat, the only indication of his attacker being the flash of silhouette from the cracks of light from the shots earlier on. Then darkness reigned and the men shouted, storming away to take care of their newest intruder.

But Sam knew they didn’t stood a chance. She watched, in relief and joy, as the attacker shot forward and tore through the soldier’s ranks, a storm of silver and black and just as vicious. One by one, he went through the men with brutal efficiency. One of the soldiers managed a short burst of fire before being taken to the ground, head missing. Another made the fatal mistake of ditching the rifle for a hunting knife when he got too close, resulting in his neck snapped and rifle taken. Once he got a gun, the rest of the fight was an awful blur. Silence fell onto the scene, dwarfed by the carnage that laid before her eyes. Men torn of their limbs, spine broken, skull bashed, arms twisted, legs disjointed and bones protruding out of their chests. And in the middle of it all stood her rescuer.

James.

He stood tall, a lone figure of the night. His metal arm gleamed with silver and red, stained in the blood of the men he killed, and was holding the head of a dead soldier. The silence of the night allowed her to pick up the sound of his breathing: hard and labored and oddly silent.

Then he dropped the body and lifted his head to look at her, his feathery dark hair parting to reveal the steel cold gaze of his ice blue eyes. A cool gaze that sent shivers down her spine. There was nothing human about that gaze. It was hollow and distant and reminded her in every way of the weapon he’d been molded into. The Soldier’s eyes.

For a second, she had the overwhelming urge to point the rifle at his direction and shoot him. There was nearly no traces of James in his eyes, no traced that he knew or recognized her. If she hadn’t been incapacitated she might’ve been his next target. But her guts said otherwise, said to let him sink back into reality’s hold, and so she waited. And waited. She waited until clarity snapped into him, till he shook his head and stumbled back and absorbed the massacre before him, till he whirled around and locked eyes with her.

She couldn’t find the strength to sit up straight, but gave him a shaky smile nonetheless. He just saved her, he deserved it. In one long stride, he reached her and crouched until he was on eye-level with her. There was no words to describe the sheer amount of gratitude and relief she was feeling right now. She could probably kiss him just for it. She might.

“I thought you were dead,” was the first thing he said to her.

She couldn’t find the energy to quip back and so settled for, “Why didn’t you come earlier?”

His face darkened. He glanced at his back before returning to her. “The receptionist was HYDRA’s. When I saw no threats and entered the lobby to check, she jumped me and said something and suddenly everything went blank.” There was something indescribably sad about his eyes. “Took a few tries to get my head back in the gutter. Then snapped her neck for that.”

Sam was pretty sure the last one was to make her feel better, so she smiled at him again despite the complete and utter pain she was in. He must’ve noticed that, as he frowned and lowered himself until he spotted her bleeding belly. His hand rose to touch the wound and she winced, breathing in short, shallow breaths.

He lifted his head, mouth set into a grim line. She’d never seen him look so serious before. “How bad is it?”

This was easier to concentrate on. “Not that bad. The shot missed any important organs, mostly fat and soft tissues that were hit. But the bullet could’ve fragmented and the shrapnels caused internal bleeding,” she said in a doctorly tone. “I moved a lot so it’s just gotten worse. I have 2 hours left, give or take.”

He grimaced. “How long since you were shot?”

She held his gaze steadily, using it to ground her to reality. “Now’s not the time. I need to treat this.”

When she tried wiggling out of her position he pinned her with his arms and stared at her. “Not here. I know a hideout.”

She forced down a thread of fear, reminding herself that this was James and he could help her. “Where?”

“Not far.” He scooped her up in his arms with surprising gentleness, maneuvering so that he wasn’t hurting her bad side, and walked quickly down the street.

He turned a corner when she said, “I thought you left me. I thought you ran away. Why did you come back?”

His pace slowed for a brief second, before picking up again. He glanced at her with a look she couldn’t decipher for the life of hers. “I don’t know.”

And he continued on his way, leaving her to ponder on the three words he told her. The three words that somehow weighed on her chest like they’d always been there before.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he moved to touch her wound, her hand snapped down on his wrist faster than a bear trap and he jerked up to meet her eyes.
> 
> Hurt and fear were evident on her face, but her voice was surprisingly steady when she said, “You will listen and do exactly as I say,” with an underlying steel. Well, she couldn’t hurt him if she tried, but he nodded nonetheless. This was her field. She was trusting him to help her, and he needed to trust that she can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic description of surgery

It was a long walk back to the hideout.

James’ muscles strained and begged for rest, his legs trembling with every step he took, and though he could go on for quite a while, the fight had really wore him out.

He had found her surrounded by soldiers right after he managed to shake the Soldier off his head and kill the receptionist. She was in the middle of a circle the soldiers had formed around her, silently letting one take advantage of her, as if giving she was giving up. A look of a person who’s prepared and not afraid of Death.

The moment he saw the soldier touch her, unexplainable and inexplicable rage boiled inside him like a caged dragon seething for release. A part of him, a part he didn’t even knew existed, wanted – needed – to throw himself into the fray and kill every single soldiers there. But he saw no tactical ways to get her out of there before the soldiers notice and overwhelm him. He needed the element of surprise.

So, he waited. He waited until one of the men split away to light a cigarette – a fatal mistake – and when she grabbed the barrel of the rifle and slammed it against the soldier’s face, distracting the men and disbanding them, he saw his opportunity and went for the kill. The rest of the fight was pathetically easy. The soldiers were obviously trained in stealth, so when forced to face an opponent on an open field, they knew immediately that he had the upper hand.

He tore through their ranks easily, dismantling their defensive formations and ripping across their offensive moves as if it was child’s play. The blood, the gore and the brutal way in which he fought hadn’t fazed him at all. He’d gotten numb to them, but somehow – someway – the sight of Samantha gasping and bleeding was a knife twisting in his guts and only spurred him in his killing spree. Without meaning to, he slipped back into the Soldier’s ways, letting his training take over him. _Flank the targets, disable them and extract the hostage. Extraction point 300 feet from standing point. Proceed immediately._

Then, before he knew it, the Soldier’s cold grip on him loosened and he snapped out of his daze, stumbling back from the stench of blood and meat drifting around him, his eyes scanning the awful scene. Bodies next to bodies, mangled and broken and beaten beyond recognition and he did it and _he_ killed them and it was all his fault and–

“James?” Samantha’s voice rung in his ears. He jolted out of the daze he’d fallen into, and glanced back down to her tired face. She was weak, her breaths small and spaced out, her blood staining his shirt. His chest clenched at the sight, and he thought how if he was just a minute later she’d be dead. That did something to him. Something unexplainable.

_No, stop. Focus._

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and strolled forward, the weight of her in his arms growing heavier and heavier by the second.

“Are we there yet?” Her voice was so small.

He shook his head. _Not yet._ “Soon.”

All she did was sucked in a shuddery breath and closed her eyes to conserve energy. James couldn’t do anything about, so he did what he could. He would take her to a safe place where he could keep an eye on her. Any feeling he had, he set to flame.

The hideout was one he spotted when he was out scouting for enemies. It was a small flat with zero windows and a locked door, hidden cleverly behind a barbershop and a cafe, its entrance behind a tall oak. He ducked a branch and stepped inside, the sudden scent of dust and old-wood wafting his nose. Scanning the room, he spotted a tiny bed likely made for one person, and strode over and set the cold body of Doc down there.

She opened her eyes, sucking in a sharp breath and curling herself into a fetal position, clearly appreciating the feeling of lying down properly. James took an uncertain step back, eyes flicking over her paling form with growing dread. She was bleeding, and hurting, and he had no idea what to do.

He’d never been so still at the sight of someone in such a state of vulnerability. Usually he’d lash out even at a tiny moment of weakness, using it to his leverage to kill his targets. But that was when he was the Soldier, when he had a Base and handlers, when he had assignments. Now, those were nothing but fleeting memories, and did nothing to help the situation. Now, there was no target, and no beatings awaiting him at home should he fail.

Now, there was just Doc – Samantha, as she’d told him – lying in pain while he watched, feeling frustratingly helpless and useless.

 _If you’d come earlier, she wouldn’t be hurt_ , a voice whispered nastily. Before he could retort back, another one – one that sounded deceptively like Samantha – rang loud and clear in his head: _I always take small steps before a giant leap._

James agreed with the second voice. If he couldn’t treat her wounds, the least he could do was help her. He could change her shirt, find medical supplies, guard the hideout until she heals. Small steps before the leap.

He heard seams tearing and looked up in time to see Doc fumbling with the edge of her shirt, trying in vain to get it off. Blood stained her stomach, already clotting in an effort to seal and stop the blood flow. He was surprised she could even stay awake after getting shot, much less move.

“Ah!” she cried out and her stomach clenched. The sound was like a blade to his guts and he suddenly find himself walking towards her. He crouched, her eyes widened as his offering hands.

_Apparently she wasn’t going to ask for help._

After a breath, she huffed, lifted herself into a sitting position and raised her arms so he could lift the shirt over. Her bandage was hanging loosely beneath the shadow of her breasts, exposing one, but the matter of concern here was the bullet in her abdomen.

He heard her breathing hitched. “We need med–”

“I know,” he cut her off, voice smaller than he thought possible. One quick rummage in her bag and he found a med bag which erased the skeptical voice inside his head. He unzipped the bag and poured out the contents inside; gauze bands, cotton swaps, a pair of tweezers, needle and threads, and a bottle of iodine. She really did think this through.

When he moved to touch her wound, her hand snapped down on his wrist faster than a bear trap and he jerked up to meet her eyes.

Hurt and fear were evident on her face, but her voice was surprisingly steady when she said, “You will listen and do exactly as I say,” with an underlying steel. Well, she couldn’t hurt him if she tried, but he nodded nonetheless. This was her field. She was trusting him to help her, and he needed to trust that she can do this.

Samantha coached him through cleaning her wound, examining it, how to evaluate the condition of the wound and how to remove the bullet. In her words, the shell hadn’t hit anything vital, so removing it was rather safe, but she could still risk getting infected. But she still pushed on, despite the pain, and gave him clear and concise instructions in her Doc tone. Her breathing became increasingly labored when he inserted the tweezers and pulled out the slug, dropping it to the ground.

She closed her eyes, breathing hard but slowly in a more controlled way. He waited patiently until she got a grip on herself.

“Okay,” she said in a rough voice. “You’re going to have to stitch the wound back together.”

His eyes widened, but at her _don’t-fuck-with-me_ face, nodded and grabbed a needle and thread. The piece of metal felt so tiny in his hands, and inserting the thread was a pain in the ass. Somehow, someway, he managed it and with Doc’s explicit instructions, began the meticulous process of closing wounds.

She hissed as soon as the needle broke skin, but at his hesitation nodded furiously to spur him on. He was careful in his work, weaving the needle up and down her skin and using cotton swabs to wipe away the blobs of blood that appeared on the newly-sown back wound.

She was colorful in her language as he worked, even though he tried as hard as he could to do it gently. He was very conscious of hurting her. But he was trying to work efficiently and it ended up in rather graceless needlework.

When he was done and looked up expectantly for further walkthrough, she’d already passed out, her head hanging on her shoulder and her chest heaving like she just ran a marathon.

He couldn’t blame her. He really couldn’t. Bullet wounds are always messy and painful, and even more so in trying to heal it. He’d definitely had his fair share of being stitched up from GSW after a mission gone wrong or after a mark got a good shot at him. Usually it hadn’t ended up anywhere fatal, he’d made sure of that. Still, it was an awfully tortuous process. He _definitely_ hadn’t gone through one where he was the one walking the other through the procedure.

He searched and found a shrapnel from the shell he just removed, and used it to cut the thread connected to the needle and threw them away. Then he stashed away all the med equipments, zipped up the bag and got up.

Doc’s wound didn’t look nice, nor would it feel nice, but at least she wasn’t running the risk of bleeding out or getting infected. He found it hard to look at his hand, coated in her blood. Stepping back, he forced himself to look away from her limped body and instead concentrated on breathing. Slow, taking in large gulps of air, holding for ten seconds, letting it out, and repeat.

When his ears stopped ringing and he no longer felt like he was going to fall over, he found a spot and sat on it, eyes trained on Doc as he watched the rise of fall of her chest.

 

* * *

 

She woke up to pain and confusion.

There was something biting into her flesh, her stomach. A stinging, aching sensation that edging on the cusp of painfulness, but she was too numb there to feel anything more than that. She wasn’t on any anesthetic, was her first thought. That, at least, explained the awful soreness seeping into her bones.

Her second thought was the sudden irrational urge to scream and run away to get rid of all these thoughts inside her head, all these voices telling her lies and deceptions and she didn’t know what was real and what was not but nothing could trump the raw unadulterated fear crashing into her like a fifty-feet wave and–

_No. Stop. Breath._

She sucked in a breath.

_Remember._

She didn’t run away, because she _remembered_. She remembered nearly dying at the hands of HYDRA, remembered the burning haze of being shot, the flood of relief when James arrived, the strange fluttery feelings in her stomach as he cradled her in his arms, her head resting against the firmness of his chest as he carried her back.

She remembered having her stomach torn apart to get rid of a slug, that James was the one who had to do it, that she was awake during all that. And then. . . she must’ve passed out afterwards. The combination of pain and energy deprivation must’ve gotten to her. Suddenly the prospect of sleeping forever sounded _very_ tempting to her.

“Sam?” James’ voice drifted over to her quiet reverie. She was too tired and hurt to recognize him shortening her first name. “You’re awake?”

 _No point in trying to hide._ He was trained to sniff out lies, to see through deceit. He’d see through her faking sleep. She opened her eyes with massive effort. The peeling concrete ceiling greeted her, covered in a layer of peeling paint. Dust invaded her nostrils and mouth, and she coughed several times, pain flaring up each time her stomach constricted.

It took her a few tries to find the breathing pattern that didn’t make her lungs felt like they were being set on fire. And then another massive struggle to wiggle out of her lying spot. Immediately as her back left the surface of the bed, she felt cool hands on her shoulders, easing her gently back onto the mattress. James’ concerned face hovered in her vision, as soon as she blinked the other three illusions out of the way.

“Rest.” His tone was soft, gentle. “You’ll need it.”

She blinked again, utter confusion mixing with the weariness in her system. Even the thought of thinking made her feel dizzy. _Maybe_ a rest wouldn’t hurt. “Okay.”

His face indicated he didn’t entirely trusted her word, but he nodded nonetheless and drew back, his breath still lingered on her neck. She shifted to turn and see him properly, catching a glimpse at the bright sky. _Noon already?_ She must’ve been out for _hours._

Her eyes drifted downwards and caught James in the middle of the room, stoking a fire. Sam was about to ask why when a chilly breeze brushed across her, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

_Ah. January. That’s why._

She turned back to him, suddenly hyper aware of the jacket settling over her and the gratitude that came with it. Her body would go into shock even at the slightest of temperature change. But surely he was cold as well? Or do HYDRA train their weapon to withstand even the most extreme of weather? Why did she still think of him as a weapon and not a person? Not James?

 _Maybe it had something to do with the way he killed all those men_ , whispered a voice in her head. _He was almost the Soldier. You almost killed him. You had the rifle, you could’ve._

The voice was right. Cold seeped into her veins at the very thought of those cold, soulless icy eyes staring straight back into hers, portraying a ruthlessness she hoped never to see him act out upon. But he did. And he did it to save her. He killed them because it was necessary, was what needed to be done. _Then why does it feel like a thousand tons are weighing on her chest right now? Why does she cringe and shrink away every time she’s in his presence?_

The Soldier terrified her, but James had not. It was a line too thin and too easily blurred to tread upon, a line she knew near impossible _not_ to cross. The Soldier was a part of him, a part that she could never, and rightfully so, understand. Trusting him would be an even greater risk. One day he’d be normal and act nice to her, the next day he might snap and let the Soldier run rampage over her dead corpse. Why did she trust him? Why should she?

Why would _he_ trust her, a medic and non-combatant who’d slow him down on his best days? Shouldn’t he be chasing after his past, his memories, his _freedom?_ This, she realized, was a thin and dangerous two-sided blade, a trust neither of them knew how to wield. They were walking on unknown territories, perhaps waiting for the other party to betray them. She was waiting for him to kill her. He was probably waiting for her to call upon HYDRA to get their weapon back.

But none of that had happened yet, though Sam stored in away in a box labeled ‘ _in the far far future’_ , and shoved it into the deepest corners of her mind. That was a fantasy, and this was now. And honestly, she thought waiting for something she _knew_ was inevitable was getting a little tiresome.

 _But it won’t hurt too much to ask_ , said the voice again. Then, before she thought the better of it, before she could regain control of her tongue, she said, “Why?” in the most accusing tone possible. Then snapped her mouth shut. _This is why you fail, Waverly_ , she thought bitterly. _Think before you fucking speak._

To her relief, or disappointment, all he did was looked up, his expression unreadable, shrugged and tossed a twig into the flaming pile. Fire danced in his eyes like it’d always belonged there before. She sighed and mentally berated herself, settling back down on her bed. _Honestly Samantha. He saves you from a bunch of rapists, treats your wound, didn’t kill you, lets you sleep on a bed all to yourself,_ **_didn’t_ ** _kill you (again), set up a fireplace to keep warm, and instead of saying ‘thank you’, you ask why hadn’t he snapped and turned on you yet?_

She huffed a frustrated breath and dragged her arm across her forehead. _This is why father says you’re unlovable._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Bear with me here. I know absolutely _nothing_ about the process of removing a bullet and what to do afterwards. This is using some shady info from my good friend Google  & common sense. 
> 
> AKA please don’t kill me for medical inaccuracies _I tried my best!!!_
> 
> Also, our girl got mad trust issues.


End file.
